Why do you play so sweetly?
by Rhowanna
Summary: John is woken by Sherlock playing the violin, and the sweet notes evoke new feelings.
1. Chapter 1

Soft, tinkling melodic string notes tip toed their way into the living room, where John was dozing. He had fallen asleep in front of the TV again, papers stacked high around him; write ups for the case they had finished. He had been dreaming fitfully of racing through London's darkened streets, slipping on the cobblestones, past shop fronts, past restaurants from which a soft, tinkling music could be heard. As he whirled round a gloomy corner – following a black trench coat as it whipped into the shadows, he came to the realisation that the music was still there.

A fluctuating melody pulled across strings that persisted in fluttering at the back of his head. Coming to, he lifted his head drowsily. The TV flickered soundlessly; perhaps he had leant on the remote- perhaps he never had the sound up. The music was drifting from the direction of Sherlock's bed room, and it appeared to have been plucked delicately from the heart if a violin. Shifting his weight to his feet, John shook his head to clear it and shuffled over to Sherlock's door, one hand on the wall. The door was ajar, as was often his flat mate's habit, caused by the need to quickly access any technology in the house, and also to allow his voice to carry through to John, in such dire circumstances as the need of a pen.

Leaning his sleep stuffed head against the cool wall; John peered through the gap to watch Sherlock play. He was not expecting what he saw. Gone were the impatient tweaking of the strings and the sometimes vicious plucking, he wasn't striking the violin with short sharp stabs of the bow or creating a discordant mess.

Instead his tall frame stood rocked with the music he was creating, his head was bowed, on unruly curl tumbling deliciously onto his pale forehead. It trembled as he took increasingly erratic steps that matched the increasing tempo, and his back arched into graceful curves thrown into half light by the street lamps outside the window. The purple shirt he was wearing was wrinkled and stretched sinfully tight as he contorted to fit the melody. His eyes were shut tight, and his teeth bared as the violin began to mourn louder. His bottom lip became pink and swollen as he bit it in concentration; thin, nimble fingers contorting into a smooth vibrato that sent shivers down John's spine.

With his head bent to the violin, neck curved and poised like that of a swan, he had not noticed John. As John gripped the door jamb to steady himself from the onslaught of emotion that filled his belly, the music slowed. Sherlock's arm stopped its swoops and lines, and settled into an unhurried, measured drawing of the bow. Painfully sweet notes caused him to throw back his head, and release a long, wistful sigh. Everything about the way he held himself, moved in time, leant into the tune and immersed himself into what he was playing triggered something in John. It plucked like a musician at every fibre in his body, calling them to be just as taut as the player.

John opened his eyes to find that he was trembling, and the music had stopped. When he looked up, startling icy blue eyes were looking at him. Sherlock was breathing erratically after his efforts, and the glorious instrument hung at his sides, the curves of the highly polished wood echoing the curvature of his hip as he leant al his weight on it, the bow resting on his shoulder as he contemplated John; causing him to blink.

"Did you like it?"


	2. Chapter 2

The two friends stared across the small amount of airspace separating them; John willing his larynx to move and help form some intelligible sound. Like it? Did he? Blinking hurriedly in an effort to avoid the hawk like eyes glinting at him, he questioned himself. Never before had he felt anything other than amiability for this man that stood before him. A certain affability perhaps, a fondness grown from the closeness of two grown men breathing the same air for days on end, but never before this sickening clench of the gut that signalled something more.

Conscious of the silence, both men turned away, as if not looking at each other anymore would save them from having to search for words. Sherlock's profile darkened as he leant a pale head against the cool window pain and unconsciously rubbed the back of his neck with the bow he was still holding. John hobbled out back to the living room, skirting round the ruffled stacks of papers they both left around the place, and the odd lenses littering the floor from a forgotten microscope. His cane kicked out at the Union Jack pillow he had silently taken for his own. Now, he picked it up, wishing it had some pearls of wisdom neatly embroidered on the back.

Things like this didn't happen.

Urges don't pounce on an unsuspecting man, thrown from the heart of a violin, they don't appear from nowhere. But retrospective lent John a hand, and he flumped back, clutching the cushion tightly as he remembered every time he had stared at Sherlock in wonderment; every time he had ran after him, came to his call, fetched him a pen, believed in blind faith anything that tumbled from the tall man's mouth. With these thoughts roiling through his head, John rested his elbows on his knees and held his head. He needed to _think. _Be rational. Find an explanation. Perhaps it was nothing?

Sherlock was forever thinking. Laying down his instrument, in a dark corner of his room, he adopted his favourite horizontal position on his bed. He place his hands behind his head; fingers interlaced. He knew that endorphins were surging through his visibly blue veins, and the pounding of his head was due to the excess rush of blood in response to the serene expression in John's closed eyes. He also knew that John was confused; any rational emotional being would be he reasoned, but perhaps there was something he could do to ease the confusion, after all, John had already brought up the subject of... Oh. As he realised what he must do, Sherlock vaulted to his feet; pulling his shirt down and squaring his shoulders, and prepared his most dashing smile.

A little half quirk of the lips and an incline of the head was enough, before he walked calmly into the kitchen, ignored the huddle of jumper on the sofa he took to be John, and flicked on the kettle. John liked tea. Tea was soothing, hot and comforting. Tea was good. As Sherlock poured the boiling water ineptly into two grimy cups, he poked at the tea bags with a none too judicious finger, trying to get them to sink below the surface. He was no good at tea.

Turning slowly, careful not to spill, Sherlock faced the living room filled with miss-matched cushions, pipettes and old socks.

And an empty sofa.


	3. Chapter 3

John saw Sherlock whisk past into the kitchen from his peripheral vision, and creased his eyes shut again. This was beyond awkward; two adult men not talking to each other over something that didn't happen. Or wouldn't happen. Wait – what would that something be? He daren't think about it.

To escape the oppressive air forcing its way down his throat he threw the cushion on the patterned floor and stood, stronger on his feet with the resolution that some fresh air would do him good. Quietly, with practiced stealth, he limped down the stairs of 221b Baker Street and slipped out the door, closing it gently so as not to disturb any mind twisting experiment Sherlock was currently conducting in their kitchenette.

Now he was out, he didn't know where to go. There was nowhere else to go; he had just walked out of the only 'home' he had known since returning to England. But he could smell something gorgeous wafting down the street from the general direction of Angelo's cafe, so he followed it like a bloodhound faithful to the call of jam filled pastries; sandy blond hair ruffled in the breeze as if by a phantom hand. The same breeze crept cold fingers up his chest, regardless of the thick woollen jumper he had worn since – since, he didn't know. John decided he didn't precisely care at that moment, and continued down the street hugging himself warm. Life was so complicated sometimes.

Sherlock's eyes darted across the room. Where was he? He began a mental inventory. John; absent (Come on don't be obvious man!)John's Coat; present (unplanned outing at this time of night – somewhere familiar) John's shoes; present(he is in slippers – not far) ANGELO'S!

Observations stacked neatly in his mind like invoices, he set the chipped cups down with a splash, adding to the canvas of tea stains already gracing the wood. Heedless of the mess he was creating, Sherlock grabbed his trench coat, closest pair of shoes and the green coat hung over the chair, and then bolted from the room.

On his way down the staircase he whisked past Mrs. Hudson "Off dear? Shall I..."

"No time Mrs. Hudson, I must find John!" He cut her short with a peck on the cheek and a spin of his heels. Bursting out the door he threw his head left and right, arching his back to peer into the darkened streets searching for his bemused flatmate. He had something he wanted to tell him.

There he was, a clearly cold man drifting through the streetlights, in the direction of their regular tea shop as he had predicted.

Now, Sherlock was well known for despising exercise of anything but the mind, but his lithe body and long legs made quick work of the cobblestones between them.

"Sherlock? I... what are you doing here I thought you were... um..ex..per..i..ment..ing?" John inquired quizzically, drawing out the last word in his confusion.

"Oh, yes. Right. No." He gestured weakly towards the green coat. " I was... you forgot your coat" he finished lamely, laying the offending article of clothing around John's shoulders; shoving his hands deep into his pockets and his chin even deeper in his scarf. "Shall we go in? " He nodded his head towards the warm orange rectangle that was the door to Angelo's.


	4. Chapter 4

**Final of Put the Violin down. 1,414 words, very graphic,thanks for reading this far.**

Sherlock waved Angelo away as they approached their favourite table; in the corner near the bay window that glittered at this time of night with street lamps. Once seated, Sherlock commenced to remove his trademark soft blue scarf, and for the first time John noticed the flash of pale skin that sat between Sherlock's dark curls and the top of his purple shirt.

This was ridiculous.

To cover the awkward silence, and in the hope that Sherlock had not noticed his staring, John waved Angelo back to order. The big man shuffled over and gave an avuncular wink to the pair as he scribbled 'two teas' without a word, leaving John to shake head. "I am not his bo…"

His denial was cut short at the cold, thin fingers snaking on to his own, and although he kept his eyes to the plastic table cloth, he could tell the detective was still bloody _smirking._ With a calculated flicker of his pink tongue he informed John that his hands were cold, only to be sharply told that his weren't too blooming warm either.

"John? John. Look, at, me"

Something in that tone filled his legs with jelly and his stomach with lead; John decided he had had enough filling for one day.

"We need to talk." Here John met his eyes- understatement of the god damn year.

Clearing his throat, John composed his thoughts, "I didn't know you could actually play the thing" was his first response, and he was pleased to see that, for once, he had elicited some surprise from the other man.

"Of course I can pay John, why on earth would I have the thing if not? Don't be absurd" the very idea that one would own an instrument for any other reason but to play it was a mystery to Sherlock, like purchasing a cup and then letting it sit on the side. "It would be a waste of energy to use it for anything else John. And I hate. Wasting. energy"

Electricity seemed to jump between them as Sherlock lowered his voice on the last word, causing his throat to vibrate in a growl. He knew exactly what he was doing. He knew what he was going to do from the moment John walked in on him playing is small violin. John knew it too, he just hadn't realised it. Yet. As the Doctor sat there; lost for words, he gradually broke out into a smile.

"Sherlock? Let's go home, now" this was accompanied with a gulp and closed eyelids, in the hope this wasn't all a massive mistake. Without a word, Sherlock's scarf was back on and John found himself with his coat in his hand being escorted out the door via his elbow. They both entirely ignored Angelo as they tripped out of the door, but he hadn't really taken their order anyway.

Getting in the door and up the stairs in the cold dark was a new one on John; he was unaware of the recent power cut. They stumbled over each other; long limbs knocking against stout legs, until finally they were in the living room. He had no time to think before those skilled musicians' hands were wrapped around his face, and Sherlock's hot breath was passing over his lips. The first contact was rough, a clash of teeth and mash of lips as they battled; Sherlock clearly winning.

Until the back of his knees hit the table and he was forced by John's weight to lay horizontal. He quickly swiped his arm, pushing the cold cups onto the floor without a second thought as John hastily pulled off his scarf and unbuttoned his coat. Sherlock wriggled himself out of it, and John straddled his hips. They were both fully clothed, but this was something neither of them could deal with.

John wanted to see that beautiful back he had seen arching in time with that violin, and he needed to press a thumb against _that_ curve of the tall man's hip. The feel of John's roughened hands against his delicate skin sent shooting arcs of pleasure to Sherlock's groin; the touch of another man after such abstinence was a heady experience. Despite, or perhaps because of this, he had no trouble pulling the jumper off John's back and tossing it on the floor, soon to be followed by his own purple shirt.

A deep groan ran up his throat as those hands shifted lower, slipping under his belt and gently stroking small circles over the hot swelling nestling there. As John exerted gently pressure, Sherlock squeezed his upper arms and huffed in the other man's ear; he had ceased analysing the sensations long ago, they were a whirl wind of probability and ecstasy in his brain that showed no sign of letting up. John could see his glazed eyes; saw the sweat beads that had begun to form on his flatmate's forehead and regardless of the cold, a similar drop worked its way down his own nose. He was aware of this, but more aware of the gyrating motion his administrations caused. The gentle twisting of Sherlock's thigh nudged his crotch on every passing, causing a pleasant ache.

Intuitively, they both leaned in for another kiss, if it could be called that. It was an uncalculated meeting of mouths and a wrestling of tongues, but this was how they liked it; everything was hot and wet and they were both swallowing each other's moans. Sherlock broke the kiss to suggest a move to the bedroom, and when John ignored this idea in favour of a small tug between his thighs, he quietly explained about _supplies._

On their way to Sherlock's single bed, he pulled open a draw; emptied its little contents onto the floor and swiped a single condom from a pile, along with some lube. This amazed John for a second, who paused in his exploration of Sherlock's chest for a moment to ask "How?" All he got was a smirk and the reply "Before you John, it was all sex drugs ad violins. Now move" and then he was held roughly against the cod white wall with his arse resting on the bed. As Sherlock scrambled to pull off both their trousers and release their aching erections he ran a hand through Sherlock's hair, pausing for a moment to tug it at the back of his head.

"hmmmmm" Apparently, Sherlock liked that, but not half as much as John did when he found his knees being nudged apart; a set of strong thighs and a now slick hand placed between them. He began with slow, pressured tugs, whilst licking neatly along John's earlobe; enjoying the sharp intakes of breath it drew from the smaller man. Their heavy breathing permeated the air, mingling with the smell of sex as Sherlock slicked John's opening. He did it with is free hand, keeping John relaxed with the persistent motion of the other. When he felt he was ready, he tilted John's face so their eyes met. A flicker of concern fluttered over his face, but it was gone before the sex hazed mind of John could comprehend. Taking him to be ready and driven by the increasing throb against his belly, Sherlock slid his now covered member into his new partner. He paused as John threw back his head, gripped the sheets and composed himself.

"go..uhh…go on" he let out through gritted teeth. At this order Sherlock rocked his hips, unsteadily at first but with a building rhythm. The heat enveloping him was almost too much, and when he lifted John's legs over his shoulders, causing him to contract around him, he almost lost it. John's hair was thoroughly tousled, and his lips a bright cherry red from Sherlock's skilled biting. A series of mauve marks were darkening along his collar bone. Sherlock processed all of this, whilst becoming aware of the long flamingo pink scratch marks John had left on his neck.

"hmm John..uhhhhhh!" His groan reached a crescendo as he felt a powerful pulse. They were both so close. Locking his elbows with the back of John's knees, he pushed hard into his hips, pressing John against the wall.

"uhh Sherlock!" A little harder.

"Fu..John…"A little faster.

"Ah…ah…ahhhh!"A little deeper and they both spasmed as the white wave of orgasm washed over them in roiling waves, and soft splashes landed between their clenched abdominals. Breaking the kiss they had held throughout this last earth spinning manoeuvre, John turned his head to breath and Sherlock buried his own in the crook of the soldier's shoulder.

In the dim corner of the room, John spied the lonely violin and the sentry like bow as it stood against the wall.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" came the muffled reply.

"Play for me"

(fin)


End file.
